


let us go somewhere the dogs can't see (alone and alive)

by donkeykong



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Friends to Lovers, Hands, M/M, Sadness, Toxic Masculinity, blake is a stubborn little baby stupid ass, did i mention it's the 90s and also that i love outdated pop culture references, it's the 90s baby, mentions of aids, physical touch as the most prevalent love language, short chapters because i have brain rot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donkeykong/pseuds/donkeykong
Summary: Autumn 1996. Blake, boisterous youth cadet with a penchant for Britpop and spaghetti Bolognese, moves away from his brother and mother's small home to the University of Oxford. Out of his depth, unusually ambiverted, insecurities bubbling up, he finds comfort in a place unexpected to him: a contemplative, ex-Army English student, with the softest hands to ever touch his face, going by the name of Schofield.or tom is a big stubborn baby and will is basically completely smitten after one interaction
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello omgIM SO BAD AT SUMMARIES also i did the song lyrics title (with a bit in brackets)... cringe! it's from cherry blossom by paolo nutini...... see what i did there <333
> 
> anyway i think it's 1996 it doesn't really matter but i spent a lot of time researching the chronology of blur and oasis. is blake's dad canonically dead? i have more knowledge of the youth army than i do of oxford university and also i hate rich people, these facts will become evident later. anyway enjoy :)

Lately, for Tom Blake, life has been incredibly underwhelming.

It stems back to Results Day, where by some way of miracle, he was blessed with two A*s and an A. “You're going to Oxford!” his mother had doted all day; his father having given him a firm slap on the back when presented with the envelope, and been done with it. _Joy,_ thought their star pupil, _Oxford_. He explains a few weeks later to his Sergeant Major Instructor – can you give me a recommendation, when the time comes? He was apathetic, to say the least. What's a lad like you want with going to Oxford? he had said. Nothing much, Tom Blake replied; “it's my family what hold the cards, not me.”

It was a blessing in and of itself that he had persuaded his parents to let him take a gap year. As much as his father argued that you can't just defer a place at Oxford, well, Tom Blake did. And the year… was underwhelming. He continued at Cadets. He drank with friends. He worked, albeit briefly, in a small shop run by a friend of the family; until either the shopkeeper upset him, or he upset the shopkeeper.

After going straight to Cadets from work, he came home one evening to find his father had left during the day. Joseph, his brother, sat with their mother around the kitchen table, nursing cups of tea in silence. And that was probably the most underwhelming moment of all.

On August 29th, Tom and his mum accompanied Joe on his move to Birmingham, after receiving commendations from the Princess Alexandra Hospital to send him to the Queen Elizabeth. How symbolic, their mother laughed, going from princess to queen. Tom watched from the back seat, cramped between a box of books and a bag of clothes, as Joe nodded along to her ramblings. The truth is she’s always had this much to say. Their father just wasn’t there to shut her down anymore.

Joe and Tom found themselves alone at a restaurant table that evening, for all of 5 minutes as their mother freshened herself up. Then, for the first time, did Joe get a chance to smile at his brother and ask, “how you feeling about Oxford?”

Tom looked up at him, sincerity in his eyes like a wounded puppy. “I don’t wanna go.”

Joe sighed sympathetically, part of him knowing that would be the answer. “I know,” he nodded, putting an assuring hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Sorry for stealing your moment with all this transfer business.”

“No,” Tom put his hand over his brother’s. “I’m proud of you. You’ve got a great job, a great new city. You’re going up in the world, mate.”

Joe smiled again, pulling Tom into a firm sideways hug. Tom nestled his face in Joe’s shirt. “So are you, little bro,” Joe ruffled his hair, “so are you.”

-

That night, back in Essex, Tom lies in bed for hours just staring at the ceiling. There’s only two things not packed in his one suitcase and two plastic bags; the pillow that he’s sleeping on that he never travels without; and the t-shirt he’s wearing, given to him by the bigger Joe at the start of the year. It hasn’t fit him since he was younger than Tom is now, but it still smells just a little more like him.

His pillow, which he takes every new place he sleeps, will always smell like home. Holiday nights in duvets that are too heavy; sleepovers back in the 70s on the floor of his friends’ houses; and, as of tomorrow, the cheapest student rooms available at the University of Oxford. He and his father booked accommodation based purely on price, and a photo of one of the many identical rooms in a brochure. Less than a square metre of floor space for more than a thousand in debt. Just another underwhelming year of his life.

-

It’s sunny when they arrive. Too sunny to nearly be September, Tom thinks, as he shrugs his jacket off less than a metre within the gates of campus. Joe and his father were the only ones with a driving license, leaving him and his mum to take the train with his one suitcase and two plastic bags. The rumble of the small wheels stop by his mother’s side after 20 minutes, and Tom massages the thin dents in his fingers from the tight plastic handles, swearing that he can still hear it.

The sun is behind them, so when Tom shields his eyes to look up, he’s met with a clear, picturesque view of the university halls. The buildings that have stood for decades – centuries, even – are contoured with thin shadows running beneath every old brick and every chipped windowframe. A few other students roll their suitcases through the gravel, that rumble reverberating through Tom’s head again. To his right is an archway leading to a patch of grass; through it, two girls sit perfectly centred sharing headphones from a Walkman. He looks back to the building.

“Blimey,” his mum chirps, “not quite Essex, is it, love?”

Every floor appears to be split up into 4 flats – two accessed from the east, the others from the west. Each flat houses up to 10 students, with 2 shared facilities and 1 modest kitchen. He can live like this.

The rolling of the suitcase isn’t as harsh on laminate as it is tarmac, but the relief when it stops is just as welcome. Tom drops his two bags in the small space by his new desk, and falls backwards onto his new bed.

“Well, it’s nice,” Mum pipes up again. “Not much smaller than your room at home, I suppose.”

“Don’t need much anyway,” Tom mumbles, before lifting himself up and reaching for the suitcase, still guarded by his mum in the doorway. She pushes it over so he can lift it up on the bed. Inside, on top of his clothes and books and a few of his favourite tapes, is Joe’s t-shirt and his flattened pillow.

“You’ve always taken that with you,” Mum laments, as he fluffs it up and positions the pillow on top of the one provided, “ever since you were little.”

“I know,” Tom hums.

“One of them sweet little habits of yours,” she continues. “Along with sleeping 12 hours a day and having a gob bigger than your arse!”

Tom looks up, suppressing a grin so as not to encourage her. “Cheers.”

“Right then,” Mum claps her hands together, “shall we go find the kettle?”

The rest of the rooms they pass seem to be empty. He’s surely among the first to arrive. Term doesn’t start for a few more days, but with Joe gone and the house quiet, there wasn’t much to keep him at home. He isn’t sure what there is to keep him here either.

Mum passes Tom a box of Tetley she’d fished from his carrier bags, then dips off to christen the toilets. The kitchen door is closed and heavy to open.

Inside, alone at the table, is a man. He looks up to meet Tom with bright blue eyes, and Tom is almost taken aback. His face is striking, skin bright and cheeks high. That gaze of his cuts through Tom, gentle, but intent. It’s like he’s trying not to be intimidating, but trying so hard, that he is.

“Hey,” he says. Tom nods at him. “Are you just moving in?”

“Yeah,” Tom says, swallowing hard before stepping into the kitchen and letting the door close behind him. “Yeah, thought I might as well get here early.”

“Couldn’t leave home soon enough, more like?” the man chuckles. His voice is smooth and articulate, his laugh warm and percussive.

“Something like that,” Tom scratches the back of his neck. “It’s all a bit…”

The man watches him with that focussed gaze, and Tom can’t tear his own eyes away. “Underwhelming?”

Tom pauses, then shrugs. “Yeah.”

The door swings open, nearly hitting Tom between his shoulder blades. He quickly heads to the kettle, letting his mum wander in as he finds himself grateful for the interruption.

Mum smiles brightly at the man, who quickly gives up his seat. “Oh,” she fusses, “no, love, there’s really no need;” but the man stands with the chair angled towards her, until she huffs and takes his place. The chair scrapes harshly against the floor as he pushes her slightly in to the table; and “enchanté,” she laughs.

He approaches the sink besides Tom, who dares a glance to his side. It’s then that he notices his clothes – a plain white t-shirt that was unassuming while sat at the table, outfitted with a pair of what he knows to be army-standard trousers. He’s bare footed.

“Nice camos,” Tom says, dealing teabags. “You in the Army?”

“I was,” the man replies, washing away his dregs of tea, “but I left.”

“You left? How come?”

He shrugs. “I did some research.”

The man actually washes up his mug – surely a first for any student, Tom thinks – and leans in a little closer to stand it on the draining board. He’s wearing cologne. Not too much, but he’s close enough to Tom for him to notice. It’s fresh. Nice. Tom keeps his head down as he feels the man glance up at him. Put the mug down, he thinks, knowing that if he stayed so close for any longer he’ll start going red.

“Do you need milk?”

Tom swallows hard. “Yeah.”

He drops the mug on the rack and heads to the fridge. Tom exhales quietly, and carries the two teas to the table. The man puts the milk down in front of him. Tom mutters a thanks.

“Is there an Army Cadet program around here then, do you know?” Mum asks the man, charmed smile plastered across her face. Tom forgot she could hear.

“Sure.” Tom stirs his tea intently, head down as the man speaks to him, not her. “Given that you’re over 18 now you’ll want to find the UOTC at Freshers’. That’s basically Cadets for students,” he clarifies to Mum, then back to Tom he asks: “Did you do it back home?”

It’s then that Tom meets his eye again, and proudly states, “I’m a Cadet Lance Corporal.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “Good for you. Well then, Lance Corporal…”

“Blake.”

“Lance Corporal Blake,” he says. Tom thinks his voice was made for his name. “Hope you settle in well.”

And then he’s gone, and the heavy door lands shut behind him. And Tom likes more or less everyone he meets, but he doesn’t like him.

“What a nice man,” Mum sips her tea, then nudges Tom with her elbow. “Didn’t catch his name.”

-

Mum leaves after Tom cooks them both spaghetti Bolognese. His new housemate doesn’t make another appearance.

His bed is comfortable, at least. The spare pillow has made its way to the floor and Tom buries his face in his own, head filling with the smell of home, and dressed in Joe’s t-shirt. He and his mum had hugged tightly at the gate to campus, Mum smiling at him with glassy eyes and Tom not far off teary himself. He doesn’t want to stay, but he doesn’t want to go home.

He doesn’t know where he belongs anymore. His home, over the last year, has become almost unrecognisable. It’s just a house. Maybe he’s just getting older; or maybe everyone else is, and he’s being left behind.

He misses home even when he’s there. So here, in Oxford, in all its underwhelming glory, Tom feels the same as he always has. Like he’s missing something.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am incapable of writing a chapter more than 2000 words

“Schofield, is it?”

Will lifts his head sleepily to a woman who stands before him. “Sorry?”

“It _is_ Schofield?”

“Yes,” he nods, squeezing his eyes to adjusting to the light. The woman looks at him expectantly. “Um, William. Will – just Will.”

“William,” his professor says. “We finished ten minutes ago.”

“Yes,” he says again, before fully regaining his bearings. “Right, yes, sorry. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“I can see,” the professor nods, lips pursed into a semi-amused smirk. “No reflection on the class, I hope.”

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” Will sits up now, attentive. “No, I… I was awake for that. Just, um… didn’t feel like moving, I suppose.”

“Well, if you need a rest, you have a bed for that,” the professor quips, before turning and walking down the row of seats to the steps. “That is,” she faces Will again, “assuming you _do_ have a bed?”

Will stands and grabs his bag. “Yes, I do.”

Outside is cooling down from the day he arrived. His parents shipped him off in sweltering late August, travelling from London to Oxford alone with a suitcase, a rucksack, and a fistful of cash. While well-off, they weren’t, the Schofields had a habit of throwing money at things – namely their children – in place of tangible support. _Here_ , they would act; _take this and don’t bother us again. And don’t say we never give you anything._ Will, he just takes what he can get.

He crosses the common as he heads back to halls. To his right, a group of young women, sat in a circle with books on their laps, and a Yellow Monster playing full volume through a pair of old cans in the middle, as a makeshift speaker. To his left, two men. They watch the women, laughing to each other, occasionally pointing. One leans in to see what the other is seeing, before making a crude comment that Will pretends not to hear. The other man slaps him on the back; a shallow, masculine act of praise.

Through the archway, across the gravel, up the stairs. Will holds his keycard to the door of his flat and heads straight to the kitchen.

Stood at the counter, spreading toast with loud scrapes, is Blake. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with a short list of cities down the back, headed with _Blur_ , and what look like sports shorts. He looks like he’s just woken up.

He turns around, and almost jumps when he sees Will. He huffs. “Anyone would think we didn’t have any other housemates.”

“We don’t,” Will says, heading to the glass cupboard.

“Nuh uh,” Blake sits at the table, “two more arrived while you were out.”

“Men?”

“Dunno,” Blake shrugs, “ain’t seen ‘em.”

“Only just woke up, I bet.” 

“I’m sorry,” Blake turns around sharply to look at him, speaking sarcastically through a mouthful of toast. “What’s your name again?”

Will chuckles, glancing at Blake over his shoulder. “It’s Schofield,” he says, figuring he doesn’t know Blake’s first name. “Will Schofield.”

“Well, Schofield,” Blake booms – and last name basis is fine, he supposes – “are you always this much of a smarmy git?”

Will takes a sip of his water. “Are you always this much of a stubborn kid?”

Blake nods proudly. “Yep.”

Will laughs lightly again – not harshly, but somewhat affectionately. Blake turns his back to him again, going back to his toast. Will’s mind wonders to when they first met, and Blake’s slightly stand-offish manner. How much of it was his actual personality, he wonders, and how much of it was just reflex? Despite his apparent being not in Blake’s good books so far, Will can’t help feeling like he’s just reeling from the change a little. He’d heard him and his mum in the kitchen over dinner, deciding not to interrupt as he heard them laugh together and speak with soft voices. They got on well. It was nice, if not a little saddening, to hear.

Will reads the cities on his shirt and wonders which one he went to.

“Where you been, anyway?”

Will quickly looks away. Blake isn’t even looking at him. “Just some induction class. You, uh, saw Blur?”

Blake turns around with a boastful beam. “Yeah, in ‘94. It was wicked. You like them?” Will scrunches up his face a little. “Don’t tell me,” Blake reads, “more of an Oasis man?”

“Don’t really like either,” Will shrugs.

Blake shoots him a look of disbelief, before shaking his head. “Whatever. It was wicked, though. Halfway through _Sunday Sunday_ , right, this guy – clearly off his nut – bashes right into my brother, nearly knocks him straight over. And my brother, he’s like, proper grown up, you know? He goes to this bloke, he says, _‘do you mind, mate?’_ , and the bloke says to him, _‘I don’t, mate, do you?’_ ”

Blake picks up his empty plate and stands up, heading for the sink. “I’m prepared for a fight off of this bloke, you know. Joe ain’t really the type but this guy was properly _hammered._ But what happens is my brother, he says back to him, ‘nah, I don’t mind’, and then the guy comes between us, swings one arm around Joe and one arm around me, and sticks to us the rest of the evening! Like we was best mates. Sung every word. I’m tellin’ you, Schofield,” Blake laughs to himself as he drops the plate in the sink, “from that day on I decided I love gigs.”

Will doesn’t know what to say. He just lets Blake tell his story. And he tells it with such expression, such brashness, gesturing not just with his hands but his whole body. In fact, it’s like he doesn’t know when to shut up – or just doesn’t care to. Will listens politely – alright, it’s funny, but it’s sort of a you-had-to-be-there situation – and when Blake stops for air he’s mainly laughing along with himself.

He speaks of his brother with fondness. His cheeks tint pink when he laughs.

Despite himself, Will likes him.

-

The other two people to move in with them are either entirely unsociable, or Will’s perception of sociability is already skewed by Blake. He’s boyish and chatty and as it turns out, really, really annoying, but Will… well, he’s a tolerant man with a soft spot for the excitable. He doesn’t feel the need to be liked by everyone.

Sociable or not, the other housemates both got to the shower before Will. He stands in the stall, back turned to the stream and facing an already heavily steamed room. He’s done, technically, just enjoying the moment. A bit of serenity. Time alone. And it’s not like his home life was particularly hectic anyway, but Will always used to treasure time with himself above anyone else. No one else ever really seemed interested in getting to know him.

That was fine by him. Will had just turned around to dip his head under the water when it suddenly turns deathly cold.

He jumps back, turning off the shower with lightning-fast reflexes and standing shocked still. He wipes his hair back, catches his breath for a moment, then tries the water again on a slower stream. It trickles through, freezing cold. He gives up.

Towel around his middle, Will stares at himself in the mirror. The bathroom is so small that there’s not really anywhere else to look, somewhat to his disdain. He never sets out to study himself, but faced with his steam-concealed reflection, he squints through to observe himself for a moment. He’s relatively in shape, but it’s been almost a year since he left the military. He used to be stronger, more muscle-y, probably faster. He used to wake up at 6 every day. He used to climb the ranks.

He turns away. He also used to sleep 3 hours a night, no matter how tired he was. He used to sit alone in breaks. He used to cry at night.

Will knows that if there’s one person you should never compare yourself to, it’s who you used to be.

Now with tracksuit bottoms on and his towel in his arms, Will turns on the air vent and unlocks the door. It feels like it opens by itself – then, as it swings out, he and Blake walk almost headfirst into one another.

Except it’s not headfirst, because Blake is about a head shorter than Will, and can only stare at his chest for a split second before stumbling back and muttering, “ah, shit.”

“Sorry,” Will says on reflex, although there wasn’t really anywhere else for him to go.

“I thought you were done,” Blake mutters, rubbing his forehead and staring at the floor.

“I am,” Will says.

“No, I mean, I thought you were done, like, gone. Like – never mind.” Blake barges forward, almost knocking Will into the door yet somehow managing to not touch him at all. Will steps into the hallway hastily, and can’t get another word in before the door slams shut behind him.

Wow, Will thinks. They bond more every day.

Will’s room is already taking shape with his belongings. The single wall shelf is laid end-to-end with his favourite books and ones that he is yet to read; beneath it, a small pile of notebooks on the desk, one pen slotted in each of the ring binds. All three cassette tapes he owns are stacked at the other end of the desk, with his 1979 Walkman beside them. His clothes are all hung or folded in the wardrobe – and the only thing left in his old brown rucksack is one more hardback book.

Will sits on his bed with the book in his lap. Carefully, he lifts up the front cover, to reveal where the front page reads in pen;

Dear William  
Happy 18th birthday!  
I love you  
Kerry xxx

Then, held between the title page and first chapter, the first photograph. Will and Kerry in her bedroom, the flash of Kerry’s digital camera glaring in the mirror below their big smiles. Will’s arms are wrapped around her shoulders as he kisses her on the cheek.

He turns a few pages. Still on the first chapter, sealed between the prose, an old photo of Will and his sister. He’s a few inches shorter than the teenage Libby, who’s all experimentally crimped hair and neon leggings. They stand with their arms around each other on a pebbled beach. Will’s smile is as big and bright as the sun behind them.

Will flicks through a few more pages, slotting in the occasional print that comes loose from its protective pages. Directly in the middle of the book, another mirror view of Will and someone else. This one is a boy, whose big arms wrap around Will’s shoulders reminiscent of how he did to Kerry. His hair is buzzed short, the torso of his multi-terrain one-piece tied around his waist. Will takes the photo this time, not looking at the camera – instead, his eyes are squeezed shut as he laughs brightly. And the other boy, and his eyes here, are immortalised with a loving gaze on Will.

With a slow, calming breath in, Will closes the book. He tucks in the edges of the photos and sets it at the bottom of his pile of notebooks.

Blake isn’t there when he heads back to the kitchen to make dinner. In a way, he’s kind of disappointed.

Introverted as he is, Will likes company some of the time. He likes people who talk to him, even if he doesn’t have a lot to say back. He likes – well, he likes extroverts. A reminder that life is still happening around him, lest he stay quiet for so long that the rest of the world falls silent with him. People – the right kind of people – make him feel safe. Secure. At home.

Still, he thinks, if the rest of their flatmates won’t speak to him, and Blake appears to not like him at all, that’s fine. They’re not the only people in the world.

Will sits alone at the kitchen table and makes a mental note for the next time he’s in the town centre, to buy a Blur cassette.


End file.
